Love to Live
by Ramzes
Summary: The unrestful reign of Aegon the Unlikely is coming to its end. The Black Dragon is preparing to make his last stand. And a woman who never envisioned that her life would go this way suddenly has to love it she wants to have one. A life, that's it. A spinoff and kind of sequel of Live to Love. WARNING: Major violence.
1. Foreboding

**I planned this as a part of my Live to Love story but I realized that, in fact, it doesn't quite fit. My main OC would marry Aegon V's youngest son but this isn't his story, it's hers before him. On the other hand, events and consequences from this fic still affect some details of my AU stories Lady of Dorne and The Victors, so I decided it would be better just to have this one done, instead of doing lengthy A. N.s of explanations.**

_Love to Live_

The salty kiss of sea and caress of the wind were always a company Aelinor Gargalen enjoyed greatly. Especially this sea and this wind. The sun over Salt Shore made the Summer Sea far lovelier than the Narrow Sea she had last seen in the day she left King's Landing.

Forever.

It felt weird, to know that her life was no longer there. She had been born there, spent much of her life in the Red Keep. But now, she would be a woman wed and her future lay on these shores. Not that she had minded leaving the capitol too much – tensions there had started running too high for her liking.

Her uncle wouldn't really force Rhaella and Aerys to wed, would he?

She stared hard in the blue and gold radiance of the sea, trying not to think of the bleak despair in their faces as the King's resolve grew. She couldn't help them. And she shouldn't feel guilty for her own good fortune, either. Eltor Dayne had been chosen for her but she had loved him from the start – since she had arrived here a few months ago to make sure she was prepared to adopt her part of a Dornish lady and wife and handle it brilliantly.

In front of her, the Summer Sea glowed like her heart. Indeed, she feared that a single heart could not hold so many hopes and happiness! The waves came to lend her their warmth, brilliant and pale green, and the dark blue depths called to her with a male voice. _And female capriciousness_, Aelinor reminded herself, for fierce gales and drowned souls were not a prerogative of the Narrow Sea alone. Still, today she only heard the song and saw the blue hand presenting her with the gift of happiness, as wide as the sea itself.

"Why are you alone?"

She spun around, the pounding of her heart calming down immediately after recognizing the newcomer. "Because I can," she replied. "Because I wanted to. How did you know where I was?"

Her brother shrugged. "Doran," he said, by the way of explanation.

Aelinor shook her head and laughed. "I should have known," she said. "This boy has eyes on his back and another pair on each shoulder. Is there _anything_ going on around that he doesn't know about?"

"Not my fault," Alric Gargalen said, quite defensively.

_Of course._ In this respect, her nephew took entirely after his mother, which was a good thing for a future ruler. Aelinor gave some credit to the boy's prolonged staying in the viper nest that was King's Landing, too. As his uncle Mikkel Gargalen's squire, Doran had followed him to the capitol when Mikkel had been forced to take over his ailing father's duties as the King's Hand. The boy had looked just as happy as Aelinor to leave. But he had learned some lessons there, too, no doubt.

"When I left, he was in the bailey… with his back to me," she went on, amused.

"Enough talk about my son." Alric's dark eyes were suddenly serious, holding her purple ones with purpose. "I came to ask you whether… whether you think we might postpone the wedding."

Despite the warm day, Aelinor shivered. Her hand reached for her forehead and removed a suddenly offending lock of silver hair. "Why?" she asked. "What happened?"

Alric sighed. "What not." He paused. "Father is dead, Aelinor," he said flatly.

For a while, they were both silent. To Aelinor's surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She knew that she should be happy for her father who had finally found relief from a life that had been no life in the last two years but she could not help it: she grieved for who he had been before ailment changed and chained him.

Alric held out a hand and she let him hold her, the wind drying their tears.

"That is not all," her brother went on after a while, in husky voice. "On his deathbed, he tried to get the King to denounce that wood witch. Uncle started _promising_ that he would follow, that he wouldn't force Aerys and Rhaella to wed."

"And?" Aelinor asked, feeling creeps running down her back.

Alric's arms held her tighter. "Father died before the King could finish. _"I pro…"_ he said, and Father died."

The girl fervently tried to understand what that meant. She might have seen only eighteen namedays but she had celebrated most of them in the Red Keep. "He won't keep his promise," she breathed, not quite believing her own words. Surely her uncle wouldn't think of not honouring a promise made to his long-time friend? His Hand? His goodbrother? He wouldn't renege on a promise made to a dead man? The very thought of it stirred dark fear deep within her.

"He doesn't think an unfinished promise is binding," her brother confirmed. "Aerys and Rhaella will be wed in less than a moon."

The sympathy she felt for her childhood friends immediately gave way to horror. "What about Mikkel?" she asked, holding her breath.

Alric laughed bitterly. "Don't you know our big brother? It didn't sit well with him at all. He claimed that politics, he'd understand, but forcing them to wed each other because of a prophecy was either lunacy, or a very grand design that he couldn't possibly fathom. He threw back the badge of Hand that Uncle tried to give him, had words with Jaehaerys, claimed that he had had enough of them and their madness, and left King's Landing."

Mikkel and Jaehaerys being at loggerheads! Over such a thing as a _prophecy_? Aelinor shook her head and clung to Alric tighter. "So he and Mother are coming home?"

"They only stayed as long as they needed to bury Father. The King wanted a grand funeral but Mother refused and when Daella Targaryen refuses, well, you don't do it."

Aelinor's tears kept falling. She had lost her father and as if that was not bad enough, the family was drawing a divide over his very grave. "Do they want me to postpone the wedding?" she asked. "So they can be present? If they are on their way?"

Alric shook his head and pushed her slightly back, so he could look her in the eye. "No. It was my idea. I suppose they'll be pleased to attend. And anyway, do you feel like being wed almost over Father's grave?"

Aelinor didn't need to think twice. She looked at the sea and suddenly saw it cold, glinting with fake light. "No," she whispered.

"Can we really afford to postpone?"

Alric looked on his right where his lady wife had materialized all of a sudden. Naturally, the truth was that they just hadn't noticed her arrival.

Arianne Martell, Lady of Dorne, sat on a big boulder nearby. The sea splashed over the hem of her dress but she didn't seem to care. Her huge black eyes took them in steadily.

"Why aren't you resting?" Alric asked. After their arrival late last night, he had assumed that Arianne would keep to her rooms. She had given him a son not even a moon ago and while both mother and child were healthy – something that he cherished very much after their two sons' deaths and the fright they had had last year with Elia's birth, - caution was always good.

She shrugged his concern off with a small gesture. "I am fine, Alric, I assure you. Aelinor? Will you join me?"

The girl did so since the rock was big enough for both of them to sit comfortably. Side to side, they were the exact same height. But when they were standing, Aelinor, who was by no means tall, towered a head taller. Her legs just kept going and going while Arianne was a petite brunette – no doubt one of the reasons some of her lords thought she was more biddable than a ruler ought to. It was hard to take orders from a woman two heads shorter than yourself.

Most of these troublemakers had come to attend the wedding already. No doubt they wouldn't take well to being denied their entertainment. And keeping them a few weeks more at Salt Shore was simply not an option. They would deplete the warehouses entirely.

"Your father always wanted the wedding to take place," she said. "He knew how important it was to prove…"

"Yes, yes," Alric interrupted. "I think we've both heard it a thousand times. Gods, how weary I am of always having to prove something to someone! I started when I was two year old and it doesn't look like I'll get to stop, ever! And Aelinor can use some delay before she starts proving, too. Why, Arianne, can't you see? There is no use! We cannot turn time back and _not_ be born at King's Landing to the King's daughter, no matter how hard we try."

He spun around and walked away without a single word. Both women stared after him, not daring to look at each other.

Arianne's breath hissed between her teeth when she saw the figure approaching him where coast met dry land. "If he takes off with this blonde bauble…" The threat was left hanging.

Aelinor gave her a look of surprise. Given her brother and Arianne's extraordinary… arrangements… she was quite stunned by this display.

"You would… have words with him?" she asked. Surely she must have gotten something wrong.

"Of course." Arianne's eyes glinted. "What would you have me do, compete with this boring, simpering child for my husband's affections? She's been placing herself in his way since before I went into my confinement."

All of a sudden, Aelinor felt that she was falling into a quagmire that all her years in King's Landing hadn't prepared her for. "For the life of me, I cannot understand you! You never cared about his women in the months you spent apart. You even have…"

"I never have anyone while he's here," her goodsister spat. "And by the Seven, he won't have one either!"

Aelinor blinked. She could understand a marriage of fidelity, for that was what her parents had. She could understand a more… unchaste one, too. What she couldn't understand was the mix of licentiousness and passions she now discovered between Alric and Arianne.

Holding their breath, the two women saw him approaching the newcomer. To Aelinor's enormous relief, he only nodded and kept walking along the coastline. Arianne exhaled deeply and bowed her head. "I am not being fair to him, I guess," she admitted, reluctantly. "He hasn't stayed in one place for more than two weeks in months, with Yronwoods using my confinement to stir trouble and what has been happening in Essos. He's very tired and disheartened. And now, this news about your father is a new blow to him. He's on the verge of his nerves and I am not helping."

"You've been quite troubled yourself," Aelinor reminded her. In the bright sun, with her feet stretched before her so the sea could splash over them, it was easy to forget that the Lady of Dorne was no mischievous child but a woman who had suffered losses. With Mors and Olivar's deaths and Elia's frail health, Arianne had spent her last pregnancy in extreme anxiety. No one could blame her for being unable to help her husband deal with his own burden.

Arianne's dark eyes did not leave Alric's frame. "Still. I am not being fair."

Not being fair not by assuming that he'd take a mistress but that he'd do that in her presence? Not being fair by taking it for granted that he'd just become reconciled with things like interests and politics and go on to prove his loyalty to Dorne once again? Aelinor was suddenly so very pleased that she wouldn't have to balance the responsibility of a ruler with love and passion, and jealousy, and what not. She would only have to take care of her own husband and family.

"What's going on in Essos?" she asked, to steer the conversation in a safer direction. "I only know he's concerned with those so called Ninepenny Kings…"

Arianne shivered. "He's written to King's Landing, many times," she said. "And he wants me to summon a council immediately after the wedding. After his last visit to the Free Cities, he's convinced that the beast Maelys Blackfyre will try to seize the crown once more."

She rose in all her short stature and gave her young goodsister a look of extreme sympathy. "I am sorry about that, Aelinor," she said. "I don't wish you to get wed under the shadow of your father's death, truly. But we cannot afford any delay. I mean to have the lords and ladies convene here, at Salt Shore, the very day after the wedding. Should we postpone it, many of those intending to attend won't bother to come. And Lord Alor… he wanted this match."

Arianne's excuses kept going through Aelinor's ears without much notice. _Alric was right_, she was thinking bitterly. _We have to prove over and over that we're loyal. We had to prove it to the rest of the realm who didn't want a Dornishman for Hand of the King. Now, we have to prove that we don't think ourselves above the rest of Dorne. Is it ever going to end?_

When she finally tore the black cloud of bitterness wrapping itself over her mind, Arianne was already far away. Aelinor saw her approach Alric in the distance. She was probably saying something to him, for he was shaking his head. They were too far away for her to see their expressions or hear their words but it became clear what transpired between them when Arianne sat him on the nearest rock and held him close. A moment later, he rested his head against her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

_He's the blood in my veins, the marrow in my bones_, Arianne had said, simply, when Aelinor had once gathered courage to ask her whether she loved her husband. And still, she could never keep to an empty bed, it seemed, although she never strayed when he was home. Of course, he was no better…

_I'll never live like this_, Aelinor vowed and summoned the face of her betrothed in front of her. _I'll marry the Sword of the Morning, the second son of a lesser House, and I'll be happy in the most ordinary way. No scandal will ever come across my way and no major disturbance. _


	2. The Black Wedding

**Thank you, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for the review.**

Love to Live

_The Black Wedding_

The wedding took place into the great sept of Salt Shore, the one a long dead ancestor with a peculiar sense of humour had decided to built upon one of the sheer cliffs dropping vertically into the sea. To not encourage anyone to spend too much time with the Seven, Aelinor's father had said, jokingly, and indeed, if one lingered here too long, the pleasant breeze coming from the Summer Sea took a decidedly unpleasant touch.

The sept was full with the flower of Dornish nobility, minus the Yronwoods and those who allied themselves with them. Everyone in there knew that the wedding was not only a union of a man and a woman, as highborn as they were, but a declaration of loyalty. Arianne Martell was, therefore, quite pleasantly surprised to see many faces she hadn't really expected. Of course, she'd set some tests for them to pass but… Well, for now, she could relax and concentrate on the beauty of the ceremony. Aelinor was such a radiant bride, more than even Arianne herself had been, because for all the rapport she and Alric had always shared, she had not loved him. Not at their wedding. But the girl had been smitten with her betrothed from the moment she laid her eyes upon him. Arianne couldn't fault her, for Eltor Dayne was truly a sight to behold even without his pale sword. Fair hair and purple eyes, and those nice broad shoulders… She smiled and shook her head. One of the unspoken rules between her and Alric was that they'd never bed each other's friends, for that might cause unwanted tensions. Too high a price, in their joint opinion. And a good thing it turned out to be now, for Aelinor did hold some views about morals and fidelity that clashed with Arianne's quite soundly. _Blessed be the Seven my lord grandfather insisted that Alric be brought up in Dorne,_ she thought. Otherwise, he might have turned out to hold the same views as his sister and where was the fun in that?

Outside, the road, the cliff, and the terrain around were thronged with excited spectators, for in addition to the guests' retinues, almost everyone from the castle had turned out to see their young lady wed the man who, at twenty five, had made his name echo all over Dorne. Looking at the couple standing before the septon, Arianne could almost believe all the tales of romantic love bards sang. What was even more romantic was the fact that they had actually said their vows in front of the sea, as the old custom allowed, with only Arianne and Alric in attendance, so they could consummate their passion before their wedding in the eyes of the Seven.

Alric's hand covered hers and she curved her fingers, to better accommodate it. _I wish the two of you the same happiness that we share_, she thought. "And a different means to achieve it," her husband murmured in her ear. Once again, he had read her thoughts. Sometimes, that infuriated her. On other occasions, like now, it made her smile.

A sharp cry arose from the outside, followed by another one. Everyone's head swerved to the open door. And then, the screaming truly started, and those nearest to the door went out to see what was going on.

"What is it?" Arianne cried out but her words were drowned in the ever increasing noise from the outside. People started spilling out, for in the great windowless space, they would be trapped like quarry. In the havoc outside, Arianne recognized the unmistakable clash of steel.

And of course, none of their guests was armoured, their swords and spears safely away in the castle armoury as custom of hospitality, obeisance to their liege lady, and wedding traditions dictated.

The huge door was slammed shut with a clang that produced a huge gust of wind. The candles flickered and died, leaving them in semi-darkness.

The women started screaming.

Alric squeezed his wife's hand more tightly. "Stay here" he said, his voice low and collected. "I have to find Doran."

She returned the squeeze. "I don't plan on leaving," she jested, although her heart was in her throat.

The screams from the outside intensified as everyone listened. Men started talking about forcing the door open, yet everyone realized that they would probably find swords waiting for them. The air in the closed room starting getting thick. Arianne stared at the bright spot in front of her – Aelinor's wedding dress, glittering silver velvet with gold threads and embroidered pearls, trying to collect her thoughts.

Suddenly, Alric was next to her, holding her hand. "We have to break this door," Arianne said.

"Yes."

They had both concluded that anything else was preferable to standing here and waiting for the assailants to come.

"Break the door!" Arianne ordered loudly, and heads turned to her.

"Yes, my lady, but… we don't have instruments…" someone murmured.

"Yes, we do," Alric stated.

Everyone's eyes followed him as he headed for the two alters between which his sister and Eltor stood, the ceremony not yet completed.

"My… my lord!" the septon stammered, horrified. "This is an affront to the Seven!"

"The Seven will understand, good septon," Alric assured him. "And if not, I'll shoulder the blame on my own."

"Not quite," the bridegroom corrected, rolling up his sleeves to help Alric lift the huge statue of the Father.

A few of the other men ran to help. Arianne saw her goodbrother Carral among them. The septon stepped back and looked at Arianne in a mute plea which she ignored.

The door of the sept banged open, filling the sept with dazzling light.

Till the end of her days Arianne would remember the man who entered first, his huge sword in his hands, his huge body and head… and the smaller one growing on the side of his neck, the face pinched in eternal agony. She had heard of him and shivered. She should have been prepared, yet she was not.

He stepped right in front of her, men with bare blades in hands spreading all around to keep the guests at their place.

"You're Alric Gargalen," he stated, staring over Arianne's head at her husband. "I recognized you."

"And you're Maelys Blackfyre," Alric replied. "I recognized you, as well."

They locked eyes, neither willing to give up.

"A brilliant timing," Alric acknowledged. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who your informant was?"

Maelys laughed. "First things first, eh? No, my lord, I will not tell you."

_You don't need to_, Arianne thought. It would have been nice for Alric if he had managed to lure out a confirmation in full hearing of everyone. It would have made things easier legally. But as to where Blackfyre had obtained his information from, she had no doubt.

"Have you come to attend the wedding, maybe?" she asked, doing her best to sound as controlled as the two men.

He looked down, and down, and down, until his eyes finally met hers. "By the gods, I have heard you were tiny but I never envisioned you were quite that small," he murmured. "No, my lady, I have not," he declared loudly. "I have come with a more important purpose in mind. I have come to claim my birthright."

Arianne stared back, relieved that the second head's eyes were closed. She didn't think she could have made it without screaming if she had to deal with two pair of eyes in a single person. "You are so eager to have your blood spilled at the second Redgrass Field?" she inquired, and his mouth twitched.

Through the open door, she could see a number of the attackers holding the crowd at bay. It was not hard to reconstruct what had happened: their guards had been not as vigilant as they should have, carried away by the general mood of entertainment. And with anyone within a mile of the castle having come here to watch the wedding, it had been no problem for Maelys and his people to land in one of the many coves nearby and launch their attack. She only hoped there weren't too many casualties.

His hand shot forward to grasp her chin angrily; Alric's followed just as fast, stopping the huge paw a breath away from her face. "Take your hands off my wife," he spoke softly, dangerously.

The monster just shrugged and tried to release his hand. Alric held it just long enough to show that he was serious, and Arianne saw the surprise written on Maelys'… main face. Just like people who saw her first were surprised when she acted like a woman, Alric's slender frame deceived many, for under his finery, he was all muscle and sinew.

"I am not interested in her," Maelys claimed. "She's too… used."

Alric's hand instinctively reached for the sword that was not there, and Arianne gripped his hand before he could pound his fist into Maelys' massive face.

The intruder's eyes slowly went to the two statues of the deities and the bride standing between them; instinctively, the Sword of the Morning drew Aelinor behind him as Maelys made a step towards them. Purple eyes met purple eyes. _Don't you dare,_ Eltor warned silently but without his sword, he was all but a mere man, albeit a strong one.

Maelys smiled coldly. "The Sword of the Morning," he said, dragging the words lazily. "I've heard much about you. Would you like to put your sword into a service of a real man, instead of a slip of woman?"

Eltor didn't look away. "No," he said curtly.

Maelys raised his bushy eyebrows. "No?" he echoed. "I can offer you the greatest honours in Westeros. What do you have now? Do you even have a place to take your bride to, except for what your brother sees fit to give you?"

"I'd rather not discuss family matters right now," Eltor declared.

Maelys stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I am giving you the world and you say no?"

"I am the Sword of the Morning," Eltor spat, his composure cracking. "I am not one of your hirelings."

Aelinor clung to her hand. Arianne almost opened her mouth in warning. _Be silent_, she wanted to scream. _Be silent. Don't you see? You were the first person he addressed with such a proposal – and you threw it back in his face. He cannot let it go even if he wanted…_

Maelys nodded. "I see. That's why you'll be punished. Along with three of the rest."

His eyes searched around for the most distinguished-looking among the guests. "You, you and you," he said, and a chorus of protests arose. "Unless you're willing to swear allegiance to me as your lawful king?"

None of them did.

"No!" Arianne yelled and stepped forward. "Whatever you're doing, do it to me!"

"Don't tempt me, my lady," he warned and the shouts behind them became louder as the guests tried to break free, the anger at their lady being threatened overriding common sense. Arianne saw the three men holding Alric in place and was relieved. Bloodshed was so very near.

Her mind was working fervently, trying to come up with solution, finding none. Vaguely, she realized that there must have been a major breakthrough her spy net, for there was no way her people in the Free Cities didn't know about the Golden Company setting sails for Westeros. But she would not think about it now. She had to find a way to save the doomed ones. But how?

"Leave us," Aelinor spoke. Her voice was shaking but her chin was firm. "It's our wedding day," she went on. "Let us finish the wedding."

Arianne latched on to this hope immediately. Eltor wasn't a brigand, or a criminal. By the old custom spread in Dorne and other parts of Westeros, if an innocent maiden wished to wed someone convicted to death, usually that would mean saving his life, provided that the offense was not too great. That was the way for Maelys to solve his predicament – sparing Eltor without looking weak, thus winning credit through Westeros, since killing men for no better reason than their allegiance might resonate better with one's own people, keeping them in check and hopeful for spoils taken from the enemy but it also made resistance grow stronger: after all, who'd want to come to service to someone whose first response to every disagreement was "Kill them"? Eltor Dayne was well known through the Seven Kingdoms, he was no ordinary man. And if he could be spared by the reasoning of his wedding, why not the rest of those Maelys had pointed out in anger?

He slowly nodded.

In the light of the descending sun entering the sept in a huge single ray, Aelinor's hair looked brighter, wrapped in flames. Whispers rippled through the crowd, for in a bizarre game of nature, the light came at such an angle that it only lit the bride fully. The terrified septon was a ghost flickering in and out of shadows, busy with the ritual, and the bridegroom was cast in the dark marble of impenetrable shadow, for all his pale fairness.

_He won't spare him._

The thought came to Arianne all of a sudden, yet she took it without surprise. From where she was, she could see Aelinor's profile and in the tight set of her jaw, the eye that was so unblinking that it was clear the bride was trying to prevent a tear from falling down, she read that the girl did not believe he'd be saved, either. But she had to try. _Wouldn't I have tried, had it been Alric standing there? _She would have… now. But at the time of their wedding? She truly did not know. She only knew that she'd never forget the stirring of the wind, almost imperceptibly, and she knew it was the Stranger. There, with them, linking his pale hand through Aelinor's icy one. In this moment, it felt like he'd never go away. Arianne shivered with superstitious fear.

The septon said something that she missed and looked around. Silently, Lady Dayne, Eltor's goodsister, stepped forward with her small son in her arms. "Mama?" the child asked and whimpered in fear, his eyes drawn to the monstrous man.

"Be still, Arthur," she murmured. "He cannot take you."

To Arianne's surprise, the child did not start screaming. His eyes were still fixed on the terrible man and his chin was trembling but he did not make a sound even when his mother handed him over to the bride and the septon started muttering the blessing for Aelinor to give birth to healthy children. The whisper of the Stranger grew louder as the rest of the ceremony went through.

"Come on," Alric told her. The hands holding him fell down, as if even the invaders did not dare stop him from offering congratulations. He caught her by the hand and she felt the shiver going through his fingers, even as he hugged both his sister and her new husband. Arianne and the rest of their families followed, wishing them a happy days, and still everyone's eyes were attracted to the gleaming steel of the blades.

Aelinor made a step forward. "Mercy," she whispered. "By all written and unwritten laws, have mercy."

Maelys Blackfyre stared at her pale hair, the perfect oval of her face under the transparent shimmering veil, the graceful figure in the magnificent wedding gown under her new lavender cloak. "I am the law," he said. "And I say no."

Arianne saw the moment Aelinor's strength left her. She stumbled forward and then backward. Had Eltor not steadied her, she would have slumped on the floor.

A cry rang out. Arianne spun round. Near the door, a desperate fight had broken out between armed attackers and unarmed guests. It spread around before she could filly register what was going on. Scarlet blood smeared the floor of the sept.

Alric pushed her to the relative safety of one side and wrestled one of the newcomers for his sword.

"Let go!" someone yelled and Arianne felt a bare blade on her neck. "Let go or she's dead!"

A quick look around showed her that no one had recognized Doran among the other boys. She sighed with relief and quickly looked aside, to see her people cease the fighting. No one would risk her life. Cursing, Alric threw the sword down.

The hand holding her released her grasp and she reached out for Aelinor who had slumped in mute despair against the statue of the Mother, as if her legs could no longer support her weight. "Don't look up," she murmured but the bride could not look away. Neither could Arianne.

The head rolled around and stopped at Aelinor's feet, the purple eyes still open. Maelys Blackfyre put his sword aside, still smeared with blood.

Everyone cried out, as if through a single throat.

Aelinor reached for the head; shaken, Arianne thought she'd place it in her lap, with the blood still flowing.

A huge hand reached for the bride's shoulder and dragged her to her knees. A sword of shining steel and dripping vermillion came to rest in front of her face. "Suck it," he spat. "Suck it as you did _him_." And he gave the headless body still twitching in last spasms a cursory look.

Tearful, shaking, gagging, Aelinor did. There, in front of everyone. She had to, otherwise Maelys Blackfyre would kill her upon the spot. Clinging to Alric, Arianne only prayed that the men now back holding him would actually hold him, as he fought them with all his might, his burning eyes fixed on his helpless sister holding in her mouth the blade that had just killed her new husband. A single slight push would be enough to see its point on the other side of her throat.

At the end, though, he stopped his efforts, albeit slowly. Reason had returned. Arianne went faint with relief. "If I make it through this, Edgar Yronwood will regret this day," he rasped.

Usually, Arianne was quick to remind him that if people followed the law "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" to its natural end, everyone would go blind and no one would eat. But not now. She'd happily leave him take his revenge. Seven hells, she'd gladly assist him in any way she could.

At the end, Maelys Blackfyre grasped Aelinor's arm and started walking her towards the door. She did not protest – but she did not consent either. She just left him drag her along without her making any steps. Her wedding gown was spattered in huge scarlet stains, like rubies. Her amethyst eyes lacked any expression, as if the thread of her thought had finally broken. Looking after them, Arianne shuddered anew as the last light of the sun bathed them in soft red-gold glow, like newlyweds.


	3. The Days After

**Thanks, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for reviewing!**

Love to Live

_The Days After_

The lord's bedchamber was entirely dark. Maelys Blackfyre scowled and made note to have the servants whipped. But that would have to wait. He took one of the torches in their sconces on the walls of the hallway and pushed it in one of the sconces in the bedchamber. Flickering red light made shadows swim in the spacious chamber with expensive rugs and fine tapestries. _He doesn't live this bad at all, this lord_, Maelys thought scathingly. The dressing table with multitude of vials, combs, and little engraved boxes showed that Lady Gargalen also lived here or at least, slept here often enough to make herself comfortable. He had had the auburn-haired woman pointed to him earlier today. A beauty, a real beauty. How was it possible that there were men who had power, and home like this, and a wife like Lady Isanne? All Maelys ever remembered was battles. His home was his tent, his best friend – his stallion.

At least the horse didn't care what he looked like.

She was still on the bed where he had left her. Still curled on her side with her arms around her knees. The stony castle had been designed to keep the oppressing heat away but that meant that at night, it became quite cool and she had shivers running through her body but it looked like the she could not find as much thought as to rise and put something on or at least, draw the coverlet over herself. He had cut the bloodied wedding gown off her and she now lay in her shift alone. Her eyes stared straight at him but they had been looking in this direction before.

He crossed the chamber and grasped her shoulder. She neither looked at him nor pushed him away. It was as if she didn't even see him.

He climbed on the bed and knelt before her. Turned her on her back. Uncurled her. Her hand was bruised black where the young Dayne had clasped it during the ceremony.

She had grown feeble-minded. She was ugly. But not ugly enough to repel him. He saw her the way she had been just a few days ago, smiling at her fair-haired knight, writhing under him, holding him, crying out in pain the first day and then pleasure, in the next ones. Stroking Eltor Dayne's skin. Studying him as if he was the most interesting thing under this blue sky. Letting him hold her.

There was none of her beauty left now. Everything about her was lifeless, wooden, contorted. Her eyes glinted with the wet brilliance of a lilac-shrub immediately after raining but she was not crying. Not seeing. Drool dribbled from one corner of her slack mouth that would not open or close fully even to cry out in fear. But Maelys did not see this face of a madwoman. He saw his memory. The woman on the bed was warm, supple, giving. She would be his compensation for all that her ancestors had taken from him. Her body would be the warmth that would pleasure him, give him the feeling of strength he needed to finish his conquest and bring justice.

She was still staring at him without seeing him.

He reached for her shift and tore it. Caught her by the shoulders. Reached between her legs.

Her arms were still lying on the coverlet like birds with broken wings. She didn't raise them to reach for him or even push him away.

He had been prepared for crying, pleading for mercy, shouting, howling, a fight even. In the least, she should have screamed, so everyone would know that she was being raped. That was the only way she could preserve the honour she was supposed to have. But she didn't. And this lifeless indifference got to him in a way that he didn't remember from all the cities he had taken, all the women he had forced himself on. This woman was resisting not only what he was doing with her, she was denying what he was. Maelys Blackfyre was dread, feared by everyone – and she could not be reached.

As he plunged inside her irresponsive body, he realized that her eyes were staring straight at the second head growing from his neck. Even that could not shake her. She did not look away.

Cursing, he pushed her away and she obediently fell on her back, staring up at the ceiling. He reached for her, shook her. "Say something, you red bitch. Say something! Why are you silent?"

She was like a rag doll in his hands. All of a sudden, he felt the burning desire to clasp those hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her. She had erected a wall that he could not take down and he felt cheated. Being mad, she could not give him what she had given to the young Dayne – and she could not give him even the brief pleasure of feeling his power over someone who would have rejected him if given the chance. Just like all other women had…

He brushed her aside. She flew off the bed, fell on the floor, so heavily that her head rebounded, and remained in this unnatural pose, with one leg bent beneath her, the upper length of an arm beneath her cheek and her eyes unmoving, still with that unsettling brightness.

He stepped over her, undressed, and went to bed.

When he woke up early in the morning, he frowned in disgust and called the handmaidens to wash her wooden body… as well as the rug.

* * *

Alric woke up suddenly and looked frantically around. In the darkness, his dreams of blood and betrayal were sharp enough to make his mind blur the line between dream and reality. But in the three days that had passed since the overtaking of Salt Shore, the two had been entwined so closely that sometimes, the line remained blurred even when he was awake. The guests who had come to attend the wedding had been imprisoned in various rooms. Alric and Arianne had been taken to the one they always shared when they came to Salt Shore. They had not been allowed to set a foot outside and their servants had been allowed to come three times a day to serve their meals and take the chamber pot out only under the guard of a few of Maelys' men. Naturally, not a word could be spoken, although Alric hoped Doran's identity was still undiscovered. What he could see through the windows was no doubt only a small bit of the events – but it was enough to make his blood curdle.

Never the one to give much thought to weather and its capricious nature, he had nonetheless spent too much time in Essos recently and that, combined with the dreams that still clung to him, finally made him roll over and reach for Arianne's warmth.

Without waking up, she stirred a little to accommodate him, pressing his hand to her heart. But a little later, she was suddenly wide awake as well, her ragged breathing showing that she was trying to find her way back from the same bleak place Alric had just visited.

For a long time, they stayed snuggled against each other, stroking each other's skin, drawing comfort and bearings from the familiar touch. "He cannot stay here forever," Arianne finally said. "And if he activity in the courtyard is something to be taken into account, he doesn't intend to. Do you think he'll use Salt Shore as a base to attack… Sunspear?"

Despite her best efforts, there was a visible touch of fear to her voice. Sunspear was their power base; should they lose it, they'd soon lose the entire Dorne, as well. And the Water Gardens were so near, with Elia and their newborn son there, so little and so ignorant of the cloud of danger gathering around.

He answered so quickly that she realized he must have thought it over as often as she had. "No. Sunspear is expecting us to come back and when we don't, there will be questions. And when none of the others goes back home, you can bet that there'll be men sent to find out what's going on… and some precautions taken against fate, just in case. We don't employ fools, you know."

"But the Yronwoods…" she started and her voice trailed off. The possibilities were just too terrible to think about.

He ran a hand over her hair. "That's what I'm scared of, too. But I believe they won't dare move too soon, for that will show that they knew what had transpired here before they could have possibly know… if they were innocent."

She pressed his hand against her cheek. They both knew the Yronwoods weren't innocent… and they would have to find a way to prove it. But that would have to wait until they found a way to solve their current predicament. Arianne went to finish her consort's thought. "And if they wait for too long, there will be some notion of the events here spreading. I am sure people are already wondering why none of us here has returned. Sunspear will be ready for them."

"If they reach this far," Alric agreed and she thought that there might be a dark smile on his face in the darkness. "They'll have to march straight next to Godsgrace. Do you think Lady Delonne's castellan would just let a considerable number of them pass, be it on horseback or water, when he hasn't had a word from his lady for so long… and maybe rumours would be spreading?"

So many ifs. So many suppositions. For now, the possibility of Blackfyre and the Yronwoods joining forces to crush the Red Dunes looked most likely. And from there… Arianne hated to think what might happen then.

"It won't come to this," Alric said. "Our current… guests aren't going to enjoy our hospitality for very long. You'll see. It'll be over soon… and then, I'll kill Edgar Yronwood."

Arianne shivered slightly. By betraying them, Lord Yronwood had signed his own death warrant. Sooner or later, in a year or twenty, Alric would enact the punishment. She could imagine the hands caressing her with such tenderness holding the lance or vial that would bring death.

He drew slightly away, feeling her uneasiness. "Does this bother you?" he asked.

She grasped his hand. "No," she said. "I always knew what you are. I don't care. It's just… chilling to know that a dead man walks among us."

"Dead he is," Alric agreed. Of course, he hadn't seen his sister since the moment Maelys Blackfyre dragged her out of the sept like a plaster doll but he could easily imagine what she was being subjected to. No one could do this to Aelinor and live.

He held Arianne once again as the first shimmer of dawn added a layer of gold to her skin. "It'll be over soon," he said once again.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Of course I am sure," he said, smiling. "I trust my brother. They have no idea that Mikkel is coming home. Had we not been in the sept, they would have never caught us like rats in their trap. This place is home to all kind of secret passages and chambers."

"But they'll soon get to know that he's left King's Landing," Arianne insisted. "They might be looking for him already."

Alric snorted derisively before smiling again. "This is Dorne and Salt Shore, Arianne," he said. "They'll only try to find him."

* * *

"Something is off."

The unmistakable worry in Arianne's voice made Alric come to the window immediately. The courtyard two floors below was full of men. Laughing. Drinking. Blackfyre's chief commanders, if their clothing could indicate their status. Consuming the last remains of what had been supposed to be Eltor Dayne's wedding feast.

"I have half of a mind to empty the chamber pot over their heads," Arianne said angrily, and he laughed despite everything because that was the thought he had just had himself. They were the perfect couple, ideally suited to each other's dreams of great politics, prosperity and… petty revenges.

His laughter soon died, though. His wife was right. Something was off. Eating them out of house and hearth and home was to be expected and Dornish wines were among the finest but… those men looked like they were anticipating something.

Arianne reached for his hand as in the windows next and opposite to theirs, people started appearing, looking out at the merry gathering. Alric spotted his brother Carral in the tower at his left side and raised his hand to his lips, imitating drinking. Carral shook his head, indicating that he had no idea what was going on either.

As the day started dying in the grasp of dusk, torches were brought… as well as something else. A straw mattress with a naked body tied to it. Dirty locks of silver hair fell haphazardly to the ground. Maelys Blackfyre entered the courtyard and stood aside, watching intently.

Till the end of his days, Alric considered the fact that he didn't throw up one of his greatest achievements. He was one of the first people to realize what was going on. Others who had also been to Essos caught up almost immediately.

Aelinor lay on the straw mattress without moving. Even from two floors above, something about her face struck Alric as not quite right. It was strangely expressionless. Did she realize what would happen? Alric had heard of the so called friendly sharing, meant to humiliate the woman and crush her pride, usually with her husband or father tied up, watching.

Now, he wasn't even tied up, yet he could do nothing but watch. Opposite to him, Carral was shouting and shaking the bars, trying to dislodge them. Alric looked down at his own hands and was stunned that they were doing the same.

The men gathered around Aelinor.

"Don't look," Arianne whispered, trying to drag him away from the window. "You cannot help her. Please, dear heart."

He silently released his arm, not moving from where he was and still trying to break the bars.

Beneath, the men started gathering around Aelinor. One of them squeezed her breast. Another reached for the place between her legs. Her face was still unnaturally calm – that was clearly visible in the light of torches brought in circle around her, as if this was some ritual from Alric's worst nightmares. Her body didn't even flinch in instinctive defense as the thick fingers entered more deeply. Had she been given something? Something that prevented her from realizing what was going on? Alric fervently hoped so.

"Oh Mother, oh Mother," someone was muttering and the voice was so changed with pity, and revulsion, and hiccupping tears that it took him some time to recognize it as his own wife's.

The men were just drawing sticks to determine who would be the first one to take the beautiful silver-haired girl with royal blood when Maelys Blackfyre suddenly changed the rules: he crossed the yard to the mattress and cut the ropes with a few confident strikes, forcing Aelinor's legs apart before opening his tunic. Alric watched the horrifying act hypnotized, with his tears running, his mouth dry and his hands still shaking the bars.

As soon as he was over, Maelys grabbed the young woman and carried her away, leaving shouts of fury all around in his wake.

Alric barely had the time to register what had happened when the handmaidens were brought in the yard, to mollify the men cheated out of their entertainment.

Unlike Aelinor, these women realized what was going on. The screaming and weeping filled Alric's head, leaving him to place to escape to, and he kept shouting and rattling the bars until it was all over, until there was no one left in the courtyard and then his strength suddenly left him and he slumped against the wall and in Arianne's arms.


	4. Silks and Steels

**Thank you, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, for reviewing each and every chapter.**

Love to Live

_Silks and Steels_

Smooth as silk.

Maelys would not put her to sleep in her brother's bed – his bed now – out of fear of waking up in soiled sheets, for now she did everything small children did. But at night, after the handmaidens had washed and fed her, she looked as beautiful and pure as she certainly wasn't, like a princess from the songs bards sang. Her hair shone like a river of molten silver. Her skin was smooth as silk.

Out of all women he had taken in his life, she was the only one who didn't fear him, the only one who wasn't terrified by him. The only one he could examine with his palms and fingers without her cowering or wailing. Of course, he knew it wasn't for real, yet he found himself pretending that he didn't realize the truth about their situation – that when he placed her hand upon his shoulder, it stayed there because he had curled her fingers that way, not because she kept it there. When he took her, she didn't show fear only because she couldn't feel a thing. Yet his relationship with this beautiful doll with silky skin and dead eyes was the closest thing he'd ever have to acceptance. At least she didn't cringe at the sight of him.

She stayed wherever he placed her; she didn't utter a protest when he took Lady Isanne's silver hairbrush to brush her own hair out. His fingers were clumsy, unused to wielding such a fine object, and he cringed each time he encountered a knot but she didn't look as if she were in pain. When he was done, he would lean over and inhale the scent of the perfume the handmaidens applied to her neck and hair before carrying her to the bed.

In the second night after taking her in front of the entire castle, he was taken aback at finding himself stroking her pale cheek, parting her legs with care that he had never before given to any woman. The strange mix of ownership and desire to keep her safely away from all the men he had promised her to that had made him claim her in front of everyone slowly grew into a disturbing desire to make her feel as comfortable as possible. He knew it was madness, of course, but he still felt compelled to try.

And then, of course, she came to her senses. Or her feelings, at least.

Exactly one week had passed from the day of her wedding when he woke up to the sound of her screams. It was still night and when he lit the candle at the bedside, he saw Aelinor in the nightgown she had just thorn to shreds. Now, her hands were trying to tear her hair out as she howled like a fighting cat or a man-at-arms who would not have the decency to die quietly of his wounds. Dark gashes woozed blood all over her cheeks and arms.

Maelys had always been taught that Westerosi noble ladies were always dignified and self-controlled. Now, this girl from the Falseborn line whose blood was supposed to be inferior only to Aegon's own children's, kept proving him wrong. In her grief, there was no dignity, no self-restraint. In fact, he doubted there was even much thought. She slammed her head against the wall. Red blood blossomed against the pale tapestry. Seeing that she was going to repeat the motion, completely unfazed by the gaping gash in her skull, Maelys sprang to her and restrained her – barely. Compared to him, she was as fragile as a flower, yet he had great difficulty holding her. Aelinor Gargalen had gone mad. Her strength was that of madness and it was almost a match for Maelys' own physical, great power of a lifetime of battles. But not quite.

He held her as she fought – not against him, exactly, but against the memory of everything that had happened. When he felt that she had spent her energy, he let her go and watched fascinated as she raged and wept, calling out Eltor Dayne's name as if she could persuade him to return. She reached over and swept all the vials and small boxes from her goodsister's dressing table. Glass and powder showered all over the floor. The young woman reached out and grabbed a few hairbrushes and small looking-glassed that crashed and broke against the wall. The door opened a crack. Frightened faces appeared. Maelys waved them away and sat on the bed, looking at Aelinor, fascinated and numb, and watchful not to let her cause further harm to this silky skin of hers.

When she finally collapsed, he waited for a while and then came near, expecting to find her in the same neither dead nor alive state he had seen her in during their first night together.

She was breathing deeply. Sleeping.

He spent the day discussing the combined attack against Sunspear – both on land and sea – and trying to overhear something from the general direction of the lord's chambers. But if she had flown into a new fit of rage, it must be a quieter one, for he could not hear a thing.

As night drew near, he thought of finding another bedchamber from tonight but dismissed the idea immediately. Damn it, he wasn't running away from a mad whore! If anything, it would be her whom he might send to the doghouse – literally, if she gave him a single provocation!

But when he entered the chamber, he had to look at the scabs on her face and hands to make sure that the events from last night had taken place. She was sitting in a chair, freshly bathed and dressed in simple dark gown. Her hair, brushed out and shining, fell down her shoulders in a luminous river. When he came near, he saw that her lips were white and bitten all over. The blue bruises under her eyes looked like traces left by a man's fingers. There was no blood in her face but the crescent moons where she had thorn at her own cheeks gleamed scarlet, like few grinning mouths. The rugged raw wound went from her skull to her right temple. She gave him a level look, not whimpering in fear but not faking bravery either.

"Are you in pain?" Maelys asked.

There was confusion in her eyes and he looked at her temple to help her. She did not raise a hand to feel the wound as it could have been expected. "No," she said in a distant voice. "Nothing can hurt me anymore."

He held out a hand; slowly, reluctantly but showing no hesitation, she took it and let him take her to bed.

* * *

_I hate him. I hate him. I hate him_, Aelinor repeated over and over in her head while the disgusting act continued. But in this long day since she awoke, for first time in days in full possession of her faculties, she had had time to pore over her situation and come to the conclusion that her only way to survive lay with Maelys Blackfyre. She vaguely remembered the many men gathering around her in the courtyard – and how he had pushed them all away, claiming her for his own. The memory was blissfully faint and that was a good thing since she didn't think she could bear it if she knew what exactly had happened. She was moved by instincts alone – and they told her that the way to her survival was to cling to Maelys, find a way to bend him to her will at least enough to make him keep protecting her from the other brigands… until the time came for her to be free from her protector. As much as she wanted to curl back into a ball and sob, she no longer had this luxury. Eltor made an attempt to sneak back into her thoughts and she barely resisted the urge to shake_. I am doing this for you, too, my love,_ she thought at him. _I am._ _I cannot avenge you if I am dead – and he can kill me upon the spot if I anger him._ During this last day, her terror and grief had slowly congealed to icy resolve. She would live, and she would triumph. And she would see both of Maelys Blackfyre's heads on pikes! Else, she had no reason to gather her wits. It had been far easier when she had been senseless…

While bathing her, the handmaidens had whispered to her what was going on in the castle. Her brothers and their wives were still locked away in their chambers. No one disturbed the children in the nursery, save for the fact that there were guards at their door. But their attendants were smart enough not to show them out. Amazingly, but Doran had managed to keep his identity a secret so far and was roaming all over the castle. Aelinor thought she knew what her nephew had in mind but she reminded herself not to get overexcited. The Seven knew that she had gone through a most severe disappointment already.

But even more important than the news about the castle, the women could share with her the evidence of the brief moments that they had seen the monster of man sharing with her. And it confirmed to Aelinor what her own instinct already knew: she had to treat Maelys like any other man. Not with affection – he was too smart to buy it. But antagonizing him wouldn't bring her any good, either. And for the life of hers, she shouldn't let him see her revulsion. She had to tolerate him, bind him to her with whatever means she could find. Of course, she knew that anything short of outright defiance would bring her the greatest dishonour into the eyes of Westeros… but she didn't care. She wanted to live, survive… she would think about the rest later. For now, she only cared whether she'd see the sun rise ever again, meet the new day. And it depended on Maelys Blackfyre.

With bitter irony, she remembered how she had used to shiver with superstitious disgust at the tales of the two-headed man. Now, he could look like the handsomest man who had ever walked the earth, and her revulsion would not lessen even one bit. It was not his looks that scared her. It was the memory of what he had done there, in the sept. An image seared in her mind so that she would carry it with her for a lifetime and beyond.

* * *

The stench of fish, old sweat, stale food, and clothes that had not been changed in a week made Travas gag – no mean feat for someone who worked in the stables. The boy wondered how the Prince could smell himself without fainting. After all, Doran Martell was used to having the best…But he had to admit that the disguise was a perfect one. None of the enemies gave the reeking boy a second glance, let alone examine him closely. This way, Doran was free to go around the castle when he wasn't occupied with menial tasks of the crudest sort, many of them demanding things that Travas felt sure princes didn't even know _were_ done. But Doran was a talented student, learning quickly and working efficiently. And in his free time, he frequented some most peculiar places in the castle… at most peculiar times.

"Let's move these over," he now said and Travis gave him a look of dismay.

"All those shelves?"

"Quite right," Doran confirmed and started setting his own command in order. Grunting, the other boy leaned over to help, feeling a surge of fear when it looked like some presence had started helping them moving the heavy wooden shelves.

"But this is…" he started and then a part of the wall turned to one side and gaped open to reveal a vague silhouette in the darkness on the other side.

Travis was about to scream but Doran immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

The man who had come through this newfound door now stopped in front of the boys.

"Uncle!" Doran whispered. "I knew you'd come."

The Lord of Salt Shore gave them a long look and then cracked a smile. "And here I was worrying about you," he said. "More fool I. Anyway, why is your smell so… interesting?"

"That's a part of fooling the fools," Doran explained and immediately went to practicalities. "It's a little after midnight, they usually change the sentries two times a night and the last patrol was here a short time ago…"

Once again, Lord Gargalen looked around his own cellar and then Doran. His smile died. "Are your parents well?" he asked.

The boy sighed. "They live, that's what I know. And Aunt Aelinor is now living in your chambers… with Maelys Blackfyre."

For a moment, Mikkel Gargalen's eyes flashed such anger that Travas almost made the sign against the evil eye, for his lord now looked just as fierce and pitiless as Maelys Blackfyre. His purple eyes looked like scarlet drops of blood. "He won't be using them for much longer," he promised as behind him, his men started pouring out. There weren't many of them but it was night and no one was expecting them. "You," he told the two boys. "Stay here. As to us, we're going to reclaim out home from those who clearly didn't read history. For someone who venerates the Young Dragon so, I'd think the Blackfyres would know just how easy it is to keep Dorne."


	5. Night of Fate

**Once again, VVSINGOFTHECROSS, thanks for your steadfast interest in this story.**

Love to Live

_Night of Fate_

"The first thing I am doing when we're out of here," Alric murmured, "is giving him a good warming."

Arianne looked up from the table where she was trying to focus with a book and joined him at the window. Sure enough, she saw her son in the darkness, hurrying across the courtyard, headed for who knew where. "No one has found out who he is this far," she said. "With every passing day, the danger of him being discovered is diminishing."

"Not if he keeps wandering here and there in plain sight," Alric snapped.

He was right, of course. Arianne sighed and returned to her chair. Unfortunately, Doran might just find himself getting a hiding as likely as not. Alric's nerves were quite on edge with everything that had happened recently: his struggle to counter the Yronwoods' moves, his father's death, Aelinor's plea, what had happened to them… Alric was never a man to sit quietly and he wouldn't start now, even imprisoned in this room: he paced it ceaselessly, kicking chairs, tables, and walls, until he exasperated even Arianne who was not so easily shaken. Now, though, her own state of mind was not yet as unflinchingly steady as usual. Too little time had passed after Oberyn's birth. And although she didn't have a drop of milk, her breasts still hurt. She and Alric were getting on each other's nerves the whole day and clinging to each other at night, trying to find a way to escape, assuring each other that it would soon end…

Finally, Arianne's patience ran out. "Please, would you stop?" she asked, referring to his pacing. "You're as anxious as a cat and you're making me so, too."

"I am sorry," he said and stopped in front of the window. Once again, she rose and went to him. He wrapped a hand around her waist and she leaned her head against his shoulder. They both stared out into the night.

The silhouettes appeared so swiftly that they might not have been certain that they had seen them at all, in those grey garbs, about twenty or thirty men crossing the courtyard. But one of them looked up, straight at their bright window, and then he reached up to take his hood off, his other hand holding Doran's. Mikkel!

Alric waved a hand to show that he had seen him, and then looked at Arianne and smiled. "We aren't going to sit here and wait for them to do the job, are we?" he said.

She smiled back and they immediately put in action the plan they had concocted in anticipation of Mikkel's return: Alric stood behind the door and Arianne went near, yelling that her husband was unwell and dying because they knew that was the only way to have this door opened. Just as they expected, the guard came in to see what was going on; Alric hit him on the head with the heavy copper basin and grabbed his sword before the man even hit the ground; tying him up, he ordered Arianne to lock the door behind him and not open up until it was all over. For a minute of madness, she thought of asking him to roll the unconscious man under the bed, so she would not have to look at him. But of course, he had no time to spare, so she only gave him a quick hug and bolted the door.

Alric headed down the hallway in a fast, but not overly hurried step. Knowing where the rest of the wedding guests must have been lodged, he could make a close enough suggestion where the guards would be. And if he, with all his notoriety, had been thought to merit only a single guard to keep him in check, he had little enough reason to believe that the rest of them would be given more.

He raised the sword and waited for a moment before turning the corner. The man guarding the door on his left did not have time to gasp, let alone raise the alarm.

Alric drew the sword back, unlatched the door, pushed it open and immediately stepped back, unwilling to risk the welcome he and Arianne had given the man guarding them – a caution that turned out to be well merited when two men burst out the door at the same time. "No, it isn't him," he spoke in a low voice. "It's me."

Lords Toland and Fowler gave him astounded looks before dragging the man in the chamber and divesting him of his weapons. There was a small argument over who would have his sword but Fowler thawed and reconciled himself with the morningstar.

"Go," he whispered. "On the lower floors, they will be situated in the same way as here. Take care of them."

"What about you, my lord?" Fowler asked.

"I am going to let our garrison free and lock their men in," Alric replied. "My brother is here. He is taking care of their officers, I think."

He had no fear for Mikkel, for now. Blackfyre had made a mistake in positioning his guards: by sequestering the Dornishmen in their own chambers, he had left himself blind to what was happening in the courtyard because one could see it only from the chambers. In this part of the castle, the hallways had no windows.

The road to the garrison's quarters was not a short one but Salt Shore was House Gargalen's seat. Alric knew ways and routes that the newcomers would not even think of. Soon enough, he was in front of the great building where he almost ran over his son who had clearly come here with the same purpose. "I swear, Doran Martell, once it's over, I'll give you such a warming that you'll need a cushion to seat on for a week!" he hissed under his breath. He had no doubt that Mikkel had ordered Doran to stay safely away. This was the boy's own initiative.

His anger melted into grudging respect when his son reached in his pocket to produce a big key. He had not been wasting his time, for sure! Alric put the brand new key in and turned it. "Now go to the granary and hide there," he said. "Do I, or else…"

His words were broken by the scream announcing the first clash in the castle.

* * *

No more than a minute had passed since the first shriek but it had been enough for Maelys to put some clothes on. He was just reaching for his massive sword when the heavy door creaked and burst open.

The hallway was full of men. The two young squires Maelys had set at his door lay dead in the twin pools of their own blood. A multitude of torches lit the newcomers, their drawn weapons and the fierce looks on their faces, so many torches that the smoke would soon turn suffocating.

Maelys stared at the two men in the lead. Alric Gargalen he knew but his entire attention was focused on his companion. Even in this coarse grey cloak, Lord Mikkel Gargalen could not be mistaken for any other: slim and tall, easily as tall as Maelys, his hair shone like molten silver, his eyes were pools of violet. There was nothing deformed about him, nothing indicating that he had ever endured any hardships. Lord Gargalen! Mikkel Sand, he should have been, had it not been for Maron Martell. This blasted Dornishman who had received everything at the end had even managed to make his bastard Alor legal heir to his maternal grandfather while the true kings of the Seven Kingdoms had to fend for themselves beyond the Narrow Sea. And here he was – Mikkel Gargalen who had never done anything in his life to win what he had, so unfairly favoured by the gods in all respects… Maelys had never hated anyone as much as he hated him. He would not hate even the usurper king so much, although he would kill him.

For a long moment, the two men stayed looking at each other. No one around dared to breathe.

"Not here," Mikkel finally said. "Let's go out…"

He might have added something else, too, but if so, Maelys didn't hear him. There was only one word burning in his mind: out. He'd be chased and rejected again because those stupid Dornishmen could not see the advantages he had offered them. He had to go out, to return to his life of battles and soldier tent so Mikkel Gargalen could bed the beautiful Lady Isanne in his magnificent bedchamber.

He made a step forward with his sword in hand. Mikkel Gargalen immediately raised his own blade – and then Maelys jumped back and risked look away from the two brothers in his pursuit of the silent shade that was trying to squeeze past him.

"Not a step further, or she's dead!"

The tip of his sword, pressing slightly against the ivory skin of Aelinor's neck, proved a powerful means of persuasion. A single crimson drop gleamed against her pulse to prove that he wasn't jesting.

"Have you really sunken so low?" Mikkel Gargalen's voice was even and controlled, his eyes never leaving the blade touching his sister's neck. "Let her go. You wanted a fight, I believe? You can have it with me. Or did you mean you wanted to fight a woman?"

"This woman, I already defeated," Maelys spat out and with some dark satisfaction saw that Aelinor shivered. At least now she knew where she stood with him. Even her fear was better than the lack of senses from the first days. "What happened to my men?"

"Captured. Some of them killed. Your defenses left something to be desired, just like ours did."

_He will remedy this in the future_, Maelys thought, furious at himself. Such a simple thing as bad defenses had doomed his plan at such an early stage. He would have to start anew when he returned to the Stepstones. And he would return, for he had a most treasured bargaining chip.

"We're going to my ship now," he said. "And you aren't going to give a chase."

To make his point clear, he nudged Aelinor with the sharp tip again and then cursed himself because she had turned slightly aside and instead of prodding the skin of her neck, he had broken the silky smoothness of her right cheek.

Mikkel Gargalen nodded, albeit reluctantly.


	6. In the Ruins of a Life

**As always, thanks for following, VVSINGOFTHECROSS.**

Love to Live

_In the Ruins of a Life_

There were those who had believed, for a while, that Tyrosh would be shown more mercy. It was Maelys Blackfyre's place of birth, after all, the city that had given the exiled Blackfyres a refuge and a chance to restore their much depleted power. Those had been good reasons for the citizens to expect the upcoming events with slightly less fear than the other unfortunate cities that now served as kingdoms for this or that of the Band of Nine.

But the Houses that still held some records saved from old Valyria and had members keen on studying them claimed that in no language spoken by pirates had the word _gratitude_ ever existed.

A year had passes since the terrible day the Band and their men had entered the city and children were still crying, haunted by the memory of it. In fact, so were the old and young ones. Ah those men! They had been sacking, killing, raping, and setting fire to everything around. Tethering their horses in the temples! Alequo Adarys did not care what people thought. He wanted to make clear who their new master was. And Maelys Blackfyre was burning for revenge, for he had once found the city gates closed upon returning from his last plundering expedition. Some claimed it had been his eight one. Others claimed fifteenth. Who could say for sure? There was no shortage of cities and villages he had set to fire and demolished as he went through life!

People had hoped that at least, they had seen the last of the Golden Company. Alequo was trouble enough. No such luck, though. Five days ago, Maelys the Monstrous had returned to Tyrosh, taking residence in the rich house of a former tyrant whose great-grandson's body was left to hang on the huge plane-tree near the gates. The next day, servants were brought in which was another word for saying that a slave market had been robbed, so men and women were able to start carrying away the debris that had remained of the house across the street, cook for the commanders in the Golden Company who came to discuss their next plans with Maelys and stayed late into the night, drinking it away. Maelys, though, never stayed till the end.

"We should not be here," Narval said, anxiously, but Ylande, twenty years his junior but quite protective of him since the second day in their old master's house, sighed impatiently, grabbing his hand to make him fall silent. She was listening intently at the silence from the chamber above their heads. Not the faintest whisper of the wind disturbed the peace. He went on to listen, as well.

After a while, she sighed again without letting go. "I was here last night, too," she whispered. "I got scared. No woman can be trusted. She did not breathe a word, for all she looks as if butter would never melt in her mouth. She could have at least screamed to save face. Look, she's mum now, too…"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, terrified that the monster above would hear, and they stole back very cautiously.

When they went out of the main building to go to the slave quarters, the stench of burning assaulted their nostrils and they saw a fiery ball on the horizon. The men from the Golden Company had set something on fire. Or Alequo's people. Or both. When was it going to end? Would it ever?

* * *

The room that had once been solar had been turned into a council chamber, kind of. Sitting around the huge oak table, the nine men reached for their goblets of Arbor gold as often as they did for the parchments in front of them. From the vast windows at the right wall, the courtyard could be seen, with small silhouettes darting here and the dead man's head, or rather what had been left of it after three months, rotting on its plane-tree. Mindless of the reek of rotten, the men had opened the windows and set them not to move.

"So, it's true?" the Ebon Prince asked. "He had his grandson and granddaughter wed each other?"

"That's what my fellow captains say," Samarro Saan confirmed. "The wedding was a big deal. There were all kinds of rumours as to whether he'd name his nephew his Hand but it looked like he managed to spite the man off, so he just turned his back on King's Landing and went away."

"Mikkel Gargalen is a fool," Alequo Adarys announced. "He could have easily been the most powerful man in Westeros and stay so for decades, for it's known that his crippled cousin relies on him as he does on few others and Aegon won't live forever. Instead, he threw it all away for no better reason than disagreeing with what Jaehaerys would do with his own two whelps."

"Mikkel Gargalen is anything but," Maelys Blackfyre cut in grimly. _Why should he not turn his back on it all_, he went on mentally. _It isn't as if he'd be forced to beg his bread by the side of the road._ Once again, Salt Shore danced before his eyes – the rich castle, the opulent bedchamber, the beautiful wife, Mikkel's own unblemished looks. Maelys himself might not have cared about the ultimate power if he had so much power anyway. "And he isn't one who can be overlooked."

"Don't we know it," the Ebon Prince agreed and saluted him with a sardonical toast. "He was the one who chased you away with what, fifty men?"

It hadn't been fifty but anyway, the shame of this defeat was still stuck in Maelys' throat. He didn't say a thing, just glared at his fellow conqueror.

"So, Aegon is getting desperate," Alequo concluded. "He's thrown this lavish wedding to fool people into thinking that all is well in his kingdom despite the wreak his sons wrought. A boy of fifteen and a girl of fourteen." He laughed. "Who's going to bet that they'll end up crushed under the burden of all hopes Aegon and the rest set on them?"

"It doesn't matter now," Maelys said and waved a serving boy to refill his goblet. "What matters is that he's gathering an army to go against us."

Dagos the Good shrugged and his grey mane fluttered. Strangely vain for a pirate, he had been making it into ridiculous braided curls even when Maelys first met him, fifteen years ago. "Let them come, I say."

"No," Samarro Saan protested. "We must meet them at the Stepstones. And we have an advantage here."

The rest of them looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He pointed at the window opposite to theirs, in the main building. Aelinor Gargalen stood there, leaning on her elbow and staring right at them. Her long braids hung down the windowsill like twirling snakes. From this far, it looked like she had been washed and groomed.

The men stared at her, squinting, trying to see her up close. A Dornish lady with Targaryen blood was something they were quite curious about, especially when there were still those in Tyrosh who spoke of her mother's sparkling beauty. Maelys smirked a little. They might strain all they liked but they'd never seen the amethyst depth of her eyes, the waxen whiteness of her skin, the small cracks in her lips, for she was constantly thirsty. They'd never feel the softness of her hair between their fingers, the black bruises under her eyes. Of course, he knew why she looked so gaunt but that was the way women often looked after a sleepless night full of pleasure. With other men, of course. He had never had a willing bedmate, even if he paid them. Not that Aelinor was willing but he was surprised by his desire to keep her. At least she didn't squirm at the sight of him_. I am no fool_, he thought. _I know why she's doing this and what she thinks of me. But she's of a strong sort, that alone proves it. With time, she'll get used to me, truly. One day, she won't look like a dead woman walking._

"Do you think so?" he asked. "While her father was the Hand, it was true, for sure. But now?"

The pirate waved a dismissive hand. "She's still Aegon's beloved niece. And her own brothers won't risk her life if they think they can negotiate instead."

He grinned at Maelys. "I don't think it's fair that you keep the woman all for yourself. I can tell she's quite the beauty… and you wouldn't have had her without us. It's only fair that you share."

Maelys took his time to answer, staring at eager face after eager face. The dead man's skull outside swayed against the breeze, sending another wave of nauseating reek towards them.

Why was he so hesitant? Logically, giving Aelinor up should not have been a problem. Friendly sharing was time-honoured custom. They had always shared, unless the woman in question was a constant mistress to one of them. Aelinor Gargalen was soiled goods. And he could never make her his Queen even if she wasn't. Not after all the men accompanying him had drunk in the sight of her naked beauty as he took his pleasure and punishment.

On the other hand, none of these men lived now…

No, he was not willing to share. Not her. The price was too high. But if they caught a whiff of his weakness, they'd pounce on him. "I'll keep her for now," he said, trying to sound nonchalant and casually menacing in equal measure.

By the sight of their smirks, he could say that they didn't quite believe his nonchalance but none of them objected. For now, that would have to suffice.

They kept discussing the forecoming war and whether they should stay here, or meet Aegon's army at the Stepstones; annoyed, Maelys found more than once that his thoughts drifted to something entirely insignificantly: what fruits he should buy for his household because Aelinor was constantly plagued by weariness and inability to keep her food in. He wouldn't have her die of starvation here, in his home.

No matter whether he'd wed her or not.


End file.
